


the sky is grey (like every breath you take)

by honeyflow



Series: whump, there it is [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Binge Drinking, Escapism, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Reckless Behavior, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 19:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17752322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyflow/pseuds/honeyflow
Summary: Prompto doesn't consider it a spiral, so much as a path he's drunk enough to navigate.





	the sky is grey (like every breath you take)

The dull ache in Prompto’s forehead escalates to a merciless throb as he peels his eyes open, sunlight ghosting against this skin to urge him awake. Immediately, his mouth is dry, cottony misery flavored with near factory-fresh tastes of the myriad drinks that lined his throat just the night before. Prompto groans, mostly to himself, as he sits up – or attempts to, until his brain slams against his skull and knocks him down onto his elbows. 

One of those nights, he registers distantly. Curious, and maybe the slightest bit hopeful, peers over the bed to examine the floor, searching for but finding no signs of intimate company. All he finds are his own socks and his vest thrown haphazardly onto the carpeting of whoever’s room he’s in. His pants are still on, as are his gloves, miraculously, so maybe whoever owned the place was in worse shape than he was. 

A quick pat-down reveals his phone isn’t in his vest, nor in his pocket or anywhere else on his person. He’s hesitant to make a mess – this isn’t his home, after all – but the alcohol is still emboldening him somewhat, so he rolls off the bed, grabs the duvet by the corners, and shakes them loose, flinging various articles of clothing onto the floor until he finally hears a thump.  


Prompto, like his host, was guilty of half-assing laundry day when he wasn’t feeling up to it, polluting his bed with tank tops and blankets that were really supposed to go in the linen closet, but it’s not like he’d had anybody at home to judge him. He’s fairly certain things are the same in the mystery apartment, but even so, he scoops the shirts off the floor and deposits them in what he hopes is the dirty laundry. 

He hisses at the light his phone emits and holds the device further away, choosing to squint and bear it in an attempt to wake himself up. There’s a handful of missed texts: all from unknown numbers, all insinuating they’d both appreciated and missed his mouth on various parts of their body. He deletes all of them without a second thought.

Prompto doesn’t remember any of their names, and he doesn’t want to.

Keeping in touch is like going back. It’s like accepting he needs to change and that he needs to do more than talk to a shrink for fifty-five minutes a pop. He may only be in his twenties, but Prompto is so very tired – he’s had a hard life, and a hard childhood, and maybe it makes him feel a little good that people think his self-inflicted scars make him seem rugged, that his bruises are kind of sexy. 

By now, he’s more than familiar with his after-hours song and dance; sweating his youth away in strobe-lighted warehouses and backseats of cars comes as naturally to him as breathing. There’s no thinking involved, and it leaves him that orgasmic sort of numb – even now, as his temples pulse like bass that guided his hips into someone else’s. 

He’s lived his life drink after drink and bar after bar, blowing strangers in bathrooms and going home with whichever girl batted her pretty little lashes at him, and it feels so goddamn good.

 _You could kill yourself like that, you know,_ he remembers his therapist telling him. Cute woman, little over 5’3” with sharp eyes like a raven’s. The tone she took with him felt like he was talking to an old friend, always in chunky knits over warm cups of tea. Prompto stayed longer on days where he accepted her offer to brew him a cup; there were always more worries on his mind than could be shorn to fit within fifty-five minutes. 

Prompto felt like such a loser whenever he’d stayed late, or whenever the receptionist saw him leave all red-faced and splotchy. No amount of tequila or ecstasy could fully wipe the shame and embarrassment from his mind, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t try. The thought alone makes him want another drink, despite the scratchiness already present in his throat.

He decides to help himself to the kitchen and finds his mystery host already there, sneaking sips from the bottle between pouring out vodka shots. Portion control and all that.  
“Hair of the dog,” she says lamely, though she proffers him the bottle in favor of her shots. Prompto’s red-knuckled fingers curl naturally around the neck as the bottle is passed to him, relishing in the burn that carves through his throat and blooms across his collarbones; it’s like being reborn when he breaks away for air. 

“Damn,” purrs the girl stood mere inches from him. Prompto can see more than sense the moment she decides his display’s turned her on, and he finds himself more than receptive when fingers thread through his belt loops and teeth nip against his neck. She squeals when he suddenly hoists her onto the counter, and spreads her legs like there’s never been a reason to keep them together.

As her legs lock him in and her sighs grow louder, Prompto thinks back to that afternoon with his therapist, when the sky was a pretty shade of overcast yet held enough sunlight to make him leave the umbrella at home. The olive green ceramic in his hands was lukewarm at best when he finally responded to her. 

_I don’t think I’d mind if I did._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, fam! i'm sure one of these days i'll write a happy prompto fic ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> feel free to hit me up on twitter @HON3YFLOW


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